Coffee, Black, Two Sugars
by ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe
Summary: I'M KISSING SHERLOCK FRIGGING HOLMES! Okay Molly, calm down. He hasn't moved away, but he's not kissing you back. I hesitantly touch his cheek, feeling his cheekbones under my fingertips. And then to my utmost surprise, he kisses me back. FLUFFY SHERLOLLY
1. Part One

**Coffee, Black, Two Sugars  
><em>A Sherlock story<em>**

**Yes, I know. I could be updating one of my multi-chapter stories that people actually read. I could be arsing about in the snow outside. Hell, I could even be doing homework. But...I got inspired. Here's a quick fluffy Sherlolly fic, for your pleasure...I guess it's set after Reichenbach, and also after whenever it is that the Johnlock reunion happens.  
>Oh, and it changes POV quite a lot. Hope you don't mind. Also, in the last section, some people will be cynical and say that Sherlock's all OOC. Well, you can't see inside his head in that bit, so who knows what he's thinking?<br>Saskia xxx**

**~Molly POV~**

I angrily stab the power button on my laptop, too frustrated to ask it nicely to shut down. Leaning back in my chair, I push the wispy strands of hair that had escaped from the tie back off my face, wrapping my hands around my head as I do so. My fingers find the elastic of the hair tie and remove it, pulling some of my hair with it. I slump on the desk, my hair fanning out around me. I was so tired...all these overtime hours were killing me. Working in a morgue is stressful enough, without having to fill in for all the other pathologists who keep pulling sickies.  
>I need a holiday.<p>

"Bad day?" I jump up from my seat at the baritone voice that came from directly behind me. I hurriedly run my fingers through the knots in my hair, realising swiftly it was a lost cause. Oh well. It's not as if he was even remotely interested. I could probably walk past him in nothing but a thong and he'd just ask me to pass a damn Petri dish.  
>"Oh, it's you." I exclaim, having no control over the breathlessness in my voice.<br>"Obviously."  
>"It's late. You don't usually stop by this...late. What are you doing?" I twist my fingers together, inwardly telling my heart rate to slow the hell down. He'd notice!<br>"I need to use your lab."  
>"Don't you have your own you can use? In your kitchen?"<br>"I do. But I don't have any dead bodies in my kitchen." He smiles that ironic smile that always makes me feel a little light-headed. I press my lips together, deciding that for once, I would stand up to him. Maybe he'd notice me that way.  
>"I was actually just about to go home, I've worked for twelve hours straight." I reach for my bag, pushing some folders in it.<br>"I know you have." I blink, slightly disconcerted. "But I promise I won't take more than 30 minutes." His eyes turn pleading...how can his eyes change emotion so quickly?  
>"I really want to go home, Sherlock, I'm tired..." I meet his eyes and bite my lip.<br>"You're wearing a new shirt, Molly. Expensive, I presume? Ah, but I suppose you don't mind splashing out occasionally, even on a pathologist's salary. It looks good on you. Makes your figure much more..." He twirls his fingers, and I swear it was as suggestive as it sounds. "You should buy blouses in that style more often. It does wonders for you." He smiles again, and I feel my resolve cracking. I knew exactly what he was doing – he flirts to get his way, I _always_ cave in to him, but it meant absolutely nothing. Well. Nothing to him, at least. I sigh.  
>"Fine. Can I help at all?"<p>

**~Sherlock POV~ (good luck to me, I've never written in his POV before!)**

"I was actually just about to go home. I've worked for 12 hours straight." I look her up and down quickly, calculating. Arrived at 8am this morning, she worked until 9pm yesterday...lunch break at 1pm, went outside at 5pm for some fresh air (it was raining heavily then, her coat on the back of her chair is still damp, but couldn't have been there for more than 3 hours).  
>"I know you have." I say simply, watching the flicker of emotion through her eyes (why is she still unnerved by me? She should be perfectly used to it by now, and she could make the sort of deductions that I do if she was just to <em>look<em>). "But I promise I won't take more than 30 minutes." I make my eyes wide in the way I knew she liked. It always worked...so predictable.  
>"I really want to go home, Sherlock, I'm tired..." I tilt my head slightly, meeting her eyes directly, and she bites her lip. I'm almost surprised. It never usually takes this long for her to agree. I survey her again, noting the crispness of her shirt (therefore new) and the label sticking out the back of the collar (high street designer brand, much more costly than her usual budget). She didn't often buy these sort of clothes, but my subconscious had noticed the number of more expensive garments she wore with regularity, showing that she liked to treat herself, but rarely. The tailoring of the shirt made her small breasts look larger, more womanly, and it cut in at the waist, enhancing her hips. I could use this. I knew how to make her crumble. <em>Compliment<em>.  
>"You're wearing a new shirt, Molly. Expensive, I presume? Ah, but I suppose you don't mind splashing out occasionally, even on a pathologist's salary. It looks good on you. Makes your figure much more..." I waggle my fingers in the air at her, leaving the rest of the sentence to her (quite frankly overactive) imagination. Her interpretations (however predictable) were always as much my weapon as my...persuasions...were. "You should buy blouses in that style more often. It does wonders for you." I smile at the small pathologist, knowing I've won.<p>

There is a part of my hard drive which deals (infrequently) with my conscience. That part is currently telling me that I _use_ her, that it's unfair to treat her in this way when she is so clearly affected by me. I cast this information aside, preferring to focus on Molly's reply. She exhales (annoyed at herself for giving in like usual, but inwardly pleased that she gets to spend time with yours truly).  
>"Fine. Can I help at all?" she says.<br>"Yes, coffee, black, two sugars." I call, already going straight for the lab. I find the equipment I need to study how poisons can affect the body after death, nodding at Molly as she puts the drink down by my elbow. "And I'll need you to find me a body. Preferably male, between 40 and 60, died within, say, the last two days." I concentrate on ordering the apparatus, knowing that she is doing as I say. I hear the squeaking of a trolley being pushed from the other side of the room, and I can tell without looking that the man she is bringing died of heart problems related to his obesity (really? It's blindingly obvious – she is straining while wheeling the trolley, meaning it's heavy, and what else do fat people die of?). I brush past her, swiftly collecting a blood sample from the corpse. I settle down in my seat – this will take at least 46 minutes, but Molly needn't know that. She won't complain.

**~Molly POV~**

I stand by the desk while he works, adding substances to the blood and then testing the mixture for...something – I don't know what. So far, he's tested the iron content and the haemoglobin levels. God knows why he wants this information.  
>"Is there anything I can do?" I ask hopefully, leaning forward but still respecting his space – he gets really stroppy if you invade his 'personal bubble' (and yes, I learnt that the hard way). He doesn't seem to hear me, looking up only three minutes later.<br>"Can you test the pH of this please?" He holds out a vial of congealing blood, and I begrudgingly accept it. I wasn't even getting paid overtime now. I wearily grab a few strips of indicator paper from his stack of supplies and busy myself with testing the sample.  
>"pH of...12, so a pretty strong alkali." I say, handing the sample back. He takes it without looking at me, studying something down the lens of the microscope.<br>"Interesting." he murmurs, and I glance down at my watch. Quarter to nine. So much for half an hour. I study his face, the face which I always seem to find something new in. He looks so...content...when he's leaning over a microscope, scribbling notes in his little black book, or adjusting the focus of the magnification. I smile slightly, again realising just how happy his work makes him. So much more happy than I could make him. I hope he chokes on it. No, I don't! I just wish...  
>"You're staring at me, why?" Sherlock's voice jerks me out of my reverie. He's still staring down the microscope. I decide on the plain truth. He probably already knows what I'm thinking, so what's the point in trying to hide it?<br>"I like watching you work." He looks up (the first time he's done so since he got in the lab), frowning slightly. "You just look so...peaceful. It's the sort of look you see on a young child when they're sleeping – completely at ease." I trail off, noticing the odd look Sherlock was giving me.  
>"Why would you want to watch that?" he questions. I fumble for an answer, shrugging.<br>"I suppose I like seeing you quiet, without all your smart-arse wisecracks and hurtful comments." I press my hand to my lips the moment the words come out. Why did I say that? Now he's going to think that I'm fishing for sympathy!  
>"Hurtful comments?" Oh God, now we've got to have this entirely too awkward conversation.<br>"You know, when you say that I try too hard, or that I'm extraordinarily stupid or unobservant, those sort of things." I laugh anxiously, praying desperately that he'd lose interest and go back to his experiments.  
>"Well it's true! You are always interfering with whatever I do when I'm here. You somehow manage to refresh your makeup whenever I turn up, but take it off if I comment – that shows insecurity. You're not unintelligent, although insecurity is an unintelligent trait, but you never think beyond the obvious; you never <em>see<em> beyond the obvious. You're also especially weak, both physically and mentally. Pushing this man over to me – he's not exceedingly heavy, but you struggled, therefore meaning although you keep yourself relatively fit, you have little stamina or strength, which is also shown in your exhaustion after working long hours. Mentally weak? Yes, of course, you tried to turn me away, but the moment I compliment your appearance, you crumble like a badly made shortbread. These are facts, Molly, cold hard truths! They're not meant as snide comments like a playground pissing contest, they're simply statement of the facts, which is something I find invaluable." I blink, feeling hot tears cloud my vision. He just...I don't even...he's so horrible! And yet, I know it's all true...why does he have to say it though? And why do I have to _like_ him in the way that I do? "Oh, can I use your phone?"

**~Sherlock POV~**

"Oh, can I use your phone?" I ask, coming to a conclusion regarding my investigation. Clearly, the poison in the dead man's system was not the cause of death – the mutations took place after death, meaning someone killed him, and then covered up their method by using the symptoms of the poison to distract us (that's brilliant)...Lestrade would be pleased. Well, no he wouldn't, as he had insisted that the poison was responsible (the marks on his hands gave it away – self defence marks! You can't defend yourself against poison!), but I like to prove a point. I hold my hand out for the phone, but nothing is placed in my palm. I look around to see what was taking her so long, and notice with surprise the tears in her eyes. Her mouth sets in a thin, angry line as she walks over. She reaches inside my jacket pocket, retrieving my phone and slapping it in my hand.  
>"Use your own damn phone. And you can see yourself out." She hisses. I blink, quickly deducing what caused the sudden change in her usually sweet, charming (if slightly dim-witted) demeanour. She must have taken offense at what I said, but why? All I told her was what she already knew. She knows how she acts around me, she knows she is weak, why...my God, all those emotions, no wonder most people can't think clearly. My conscience begins to voice itself again – <em>Go after her, you need to apologise, Sherlock; just because you don't think like that doesn't mean you should have such disregard for people's feelings; she wouldn't hurt a fly, Sherlock, and you were really mean...<em>I smirk as I realise that my conscience sounds suspiciously like Moriarty. How ironic. I stride after Molly, who had just reached the door. I put my hand out, turning her by her arm. She looks at her feet, clearly embarrassed about crying. I swallow my pride (and gave my conscience a good kick – its victory dance was becoming a little tiresome), and I tilt her face up, my fingers under her chin. I study her watery eyes, noticing how the colour of them was almost identical to mahogany, how her lip trembles as she looks at me.  
>"I'm sorry, Molly. I sometimes...speak my mind without appropriately censoring my thoughts first. It is true, what I said about you. But that doesn't mean to say you have only negative attributes. You're loyal, trustworthy, reliable. You've always helped me, even if that means putting yourself out, or cancelling plans. And believe it or not, when I compliment you...say you look nice, or that your clothes suit you well...I'm not lying. I only ever lie by omission, I'd never lie outright, especially not to someone who...means as much to me as you do, Molly." I clear my throat. "So please accept my apology." I smile at her, watching the flickers of several unimportant emotions moving in her eyes. I lean forward to press a kiss to her cheek, like I did when I offended her at New Year.<p>

**~Molly POV~**

"You're loyal, trustworthy, reliable. You've always helped me, even if that means putting yourself out, or cancelling plans. And believe it or not, when I compliment you...say you look nice, or that your clothes suit you well...I'm not lying. I only ever lie by omission, I'd never lie outright, especially not to someone who...means as much to me as you do, Molly." I feel the tears in my eyes spilling over, making tracks down my cheeks, but I don't care. I...was he saying what I think he's saying? So before, when he said that my blouse gave me a nice figure...he actually meant it? He noticed me? I thought...he knew I was there, but he never really _saw_ me. I...I just... "So please accept my apology." He smiles at me, and I stare back. He moves towards me, his face filling my still blurred vision. My heart takes over my brain, and I move my head slightly, so his lips (which were aiming for the chaste peck on the cheek) meet mine. My heart stops. He doesn't move away.

I'M KISSING SHERLOCK FRIGGING HOLMES!

Okay, Molly, calm down. He hasn't moved away, but he's not kissing you back. Come on, Molly, you've kissed guys before. You kissed Moriarty for crying out loud. Kiss him properly! I hesitantly touch his cheek, feeling those cheekbones under my fingertips. I start to kiss him. Properly.

And then to my utmost surprise...he kisses back.

A few seconds (minutes? Hours? Days? Years? Happy and joyful lifetimes?) later, we break apart. Somehow, my hands are resting on his chest, my nails scraping against the buttons on his incredible purple shirt. His hands are resting on my waist, holding me (oh my goodness, Sherlock is _holding_ me!) protectively. He looks...bemused. Surprised. I surprised Sherlock Holmes. That's one for the record books. He studies my face, but for once, he isn't analysing, or deducting. He's just...looking. I quickly become nervous; he still hasn't said anything, he has a comeback for _everything_ so why has he said nothing? I clear my throat, still distracted by the fact that his mouth is inches from mine.  
>"That was..." I start.<br>"Yes." He agrees. Abruptly, he lets me go, and I stumble slightly as he walks past me back to the desk. I don't turn to look at him. I raise a hand in astonishment to my lips. That...actually did just happen. I feel him stand behind me, and look around. He's holding out my coat, and I uncertainly allow him to help me into it. I notice distractedly that he's put his coat on, and that he's still wearing that bemused smile. It's definitely a happy smile though. I think. He offers me my bag, complete with folders, and I lift it over my shoulder. He pushes the door open, standing so close to me that our torsos are touching. I make eye contact with him, and there's a sparkle there that wasn't there before. He leans in quickly and kisses me again, straight on the mouth.  
>"Molly Hooper," he says, his lips brushing against mine as he talks. "Will you allow me the honour of walking you home?" I look at him, certain I must be imagining the double meaning. He seems...mischievous? which is SO unlike him. Should I be worried? He gestures to the door and I walk through it, feeling him still close behind me. He rests his hand on the small of my back, and electric shivers shoot up my spine. "And maybe I could stay for a coffee or two?"<p>

And when he puts it like that...

**Review? If you don't have a FF account, feel free to leave an anonymous review with a Twitter username or Tumblr URL (if you have one) and I'll reply via them.**

**And I don't own Sherlock. Sadly. All hail Mofftiss...and Benedict Cumberbatch...and the purple shirt of sex...**


	2. Part Two

**I have found myself in the strange position of being asked by several people to extend this one shot. As one of those people is one of my best friends (hi there, Jen!), I suppose I had better, or she will eat me. This is going to be the only time I'll add to this story, as I really don't have enough plot bunnies to carry on beyond this. However, I do have several ideas for some Sherlock/OC stories, which I plan to make a start on in the relatively near future.  
>Song is 'Hurricane' by Panic At The Disco, on their latest album Vices and Virtues (which I am currently addicted to). I suggest you go find that and listen to it while you read :D<br>As always, review!  
>Saskia xxx<br>PS. Rating has changed from K+ to T, due to err...suggestiveness? I think I've skirted around the **_**issue**_** quite well, personally...**

**~Molly POV~**

We arrive back at my flat. My hands shake as I fumble with the key – what was about to happen? From his...suggestive manner...I somehow doubted it would be a gossip over a mug of coffee then an innocent peck before he left. I finally succeed in unlocking my door, offering up a giddy prayer of thanks that I had cleaned up a couple of days ago as I usher him through the door. He walks into my cluttered, but clean living room, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys my home. I realise as I shut the door that I needn't have worried about the mess – he lives in Baker Street in true bachelor fashion. I couldn't out-mess him if I tried. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pull my coat off and inwardly groan. My hair hangs around my shoulders in a typically unruly way. Dark shadows circle my eyes, and my skin is ghostly pale in comparison. I look hideous, but at the same time, I sort of...glow...in a very happy, smug and self-satisfied way.

I mean, how many girls could honestly say they'd succeeded in getting Sherlock Holmes back to their flat with some sort of romantic connotation?  
>Hang on...<br>How many girls' flats _had_ he gone back to? I was assuming this was completely out of character for him, but now I realise that I barely know his...habits at all! What is I was the most recent girl in a long line? I bite my lip anxiously.

"You're not." Sherlock comes up behind me, removing his scarf and coat and hanging them next to mine. He must be planning on staying a while then...  
>"Not what?" I ask uncertainly, telling myself that there was no way he could know what I had been thinking. Oh, who was I kidding? This is Sherlock Holmes, after all! Of course he knew what I was thinking – he probably knew better that I knew it myself!<br>"This is the first time I've returned to a woman's flat or house with her since my early twenties." He smiles at me, and I blink in shock. He never fails to surprise me.  
>"Been a while, then?" He looks at me, raising an eyebrow, and I suddenly realise was I just said. "I didn't mean that! I meant..." I trail off as he smirks at me. "Oh, never mind." I huff. "So did you want coffee?" His eyes become uncharacteristically soft, and he lifts my chin up with his fingertips, looking at me intently.<br>"You're angry, frustrated...why?" he asks, his voice devoid of its usual mocking undertone. I sigh.  
>"Being around you...it always makes me feel so stupid, and then I say such silly things..." I feel myself blush as a slow grin spreads across his face.<br>"You are silly, Molly Hooper. But you're nowhere near stupid." He says, and I smile, my cheeks still pink. "You'll have to forgive my...unusual uncertainty...in this situation. I haven't really found myself caring about a person's...a woman's...feelings for a long time. It's a bit foreign to me." My eyes widen. Sherlock cares about my feelings? More amazingly...  
>Sherlock admitting he doesn't know it all? That he doesn't really know what to do, that for once, I might actually have more knowledge on a subject than him? Wow. This is surreal. Surely someone slipped something in my coffee earlier, because this simply could not be happening to me.<br>"Coffee would be lovely, Molly." He murmurs, his face inches from mine – it was only his height that stopped our lips from touching. I swallow harshly.

**~Sherlock POV~ (A/N I had one review for the first instalment of this story which said that Sherlock's character seemed a little all over the place. I'll try my best to keep him better in character here – hopefully this will help explain his strange affectionate behaviour towards Molly).**

"Coffee would be lovely, Molly." My voice becomes husky without my meaning it to, and Molly instantly becomes flustered, squirming and turning a flattering shade of pink. She swallows nervously, and I draw back to allow her heart to return to its normal rate. She steps around me and leads the way to her small kitchen, filling the kettle with water, (futilely hoping that I wouldn't notice her shaking hands) and preparing two cups. I fold my arms across my chest as I lean against the doorframe, watching her. I open my mind palace, and study my actions.  
>Emotions.<br>That's the only word that can explain how I am behaving. More specifically.  
>Affection.<br>Compassion.  
>Lo-<br>No. I do not love Molly Hooper. I am not capable of love, I established that long ago. So what was responsible for the surge of testosterone I felt passing through my bloodstream? It certainly couldn't be lust – lust is based on appearance, and she is hardly the most attractive of people (her mouth is too small, likewise her breasts, so definitely not the stereotypical 'beautiful' or 'sexy'). So what? I recall Irene Adler's words..._'Brainy is the new sexy'_. Was that it? I was attracted to her intellect?  
>For the first time in a long time, I was confused.<br>When she kissed me, something stirred within me. Something that hadn't stirred in a long time, not even when Adler was parading around in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of stilettos (Christian Louboutins, her favourites judging by the level of wear on the soles). I had found myself responding to her kiss, subconsciously reaching for her in the same way that she was reaching for me. I usually refrain from doing things without a purpose – I play violin to help me think, I watch crap TV to gently exercise my brain when I have nothing better to do. But I had nothing to gain by kissing Molly – nothing apart from the appealing rush of testosterone and the overjoyed look on her face when I pulled away. And then I threw it all out of the window by coming back with her to her flat – I knew what my body wanted to do, knew it with uncomfortable certainty. She was right, it _had_ been a while. Not since university. I had thought that it didn't bother me. But maybe I was wrong.  
>I blink.<br>Conclusion?  
>I was <strong>attracted<strong> to Molly Hooper, and in the way that hinted at commitment rather than a 'fling'. Possibly that referred to commitment to a _mental asylum_ rather than to her, but I'm sure that _this_ is where I want to be right now.  
>"Molly?" I stand up straight as she turns around, preparing to pour the kettle. "Never mind the coffee." I walk towards her, focussed as she sets the kettle down, turning to me with a look of disappointment on her face. She thinks that I'm about to leave. Not. A. Chance.<br>"Oh, aren't you staying for a while then?" She speaks cheerfully, but it's forced. I stop in front of her, cupping her face between my hands. Her breath hitches in her throat.  
>"I rather thought that we could spend our time more productively than consuming needless caffeine." I barely see her face before I lower my lips to hers. It doesn't take long for her to be guiding us through a door to her bedroom, our lips never parting for more than a few seconds. My usually critical and emotionless mind is screaming at me, but I turn away from it, shut the door behind us.<p>

No more thinking.

**~Molly POV~**

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I have no words. I cannot...I don't think...I can't think...no coherent sentences from this Molly, who is being kissed by Sherlock Holmes, who's slipping her hands under Sherlock Holmes' shirt, whose blouse is being swiftly unbuttoned by Sherlock Holmes...  
>Oh my God. I can't believe this. It's not exactly been <em>recent<em> for me – what if I do something wrong? Oh, shit...will he have a condom? I don't know if I have any in my drawer! What if...  
>No. Shush, Molly. You've been on the Pill for months, and you can always go to the chemist's in the morning. Just...go with it! You've been waiting for this for years!<p>

No more thinking!

_Are you worth your weight in gold? Cos you're behind my eyelids when I'm all alone. Hey, stranger, I want ya to catch me like a cold. You and God both got the guns, and if you shoot I think I'll duck. I led the revolution in my bedroom, and I set all the zippers free, we said no more war, no more clothes, give me peace...oh, kiss me.  
>Hey, hey, we are a hurricane, drop our anchors in the storm, hey, they will never be the same, a fire in a flask to keep us warm, cos they know, I know, that they don't look like me, cos they know, I know that they don't sound like me...<br>You'll dance to anything, you'll dance to anything!_

**-8 hours later-**

I wake up in an empty bed. I sigh. I dreamt it. I must have. I roll over under the covers...wait, if that was a dream, why am I only in my underwear? I inhale deeply...and why does my pillow smell like Sherlock? I sit up quickly.  
>It wasn't a dream. I wasn't on drugs. Last night...actually happened. I blush as I remember some of the more intimate details – who'd've known that Sherlock Holmes would know <em>that<em>? I stand up, swaying slightly on my feet. I look around for something to cover my body up with, and my eyes settle on a crumpled purple shirt lying on the floor. Well...he was hardly going to complain?

...

Okay, definitely dreaming. There's no way that Sherlock would be standing in my kitchen in his pants and nothing else in anything other than my wildest dreams. Or hallucinations. I rub my eyes, and he's still standing there. He turns to face me, eyes running up and down my body, taking in my bare legs, and his shirt that comes down to my thighs. He smirks, raising an eyebrow.  
>Not dreaming. That looks too perfect for my brain to come up with.<br>"Oh, shut up." I mumble, sitting down on a chair by the counter he was working at. He's doing toast. Sherlock is toasting bread to make toast in my kitchen.  
>"I said nothing." He says smoothly. He turns and presses his lips to my ear. "Hardly an improvement on last night, but I definitely prefer this look to your normal daywear." He almost growls, and I blush again. Being around...<em>with<em>...him made me feel like I was constantly being slapped in the face. I fight the urge to wrap my arms around his neck and carry on where we left off last night and lean back, crossing my legs casually.  
>"So." I say, trying to work out how to phrase my queries.<br>"So?" He asks, catching the toast as it pops up without even looking.  
>"So...well..." I knit my fingers together, my timid persona taking over. He sighs, and touches my face.<br>"I thought we were past your stuttering and nervousness." He chides softly. I inhale deeply.  
>"So...what are we?" He frowns. "I mean, obviously we...spent the night together...but was it just that? Because if it was, then fine. I can handle that. I just didn't know if that was going to be all, or if-" I begin to babble, and he rests a long finger over my lips (causing a new wave of memories from last night to engulf my brain – memories regarding that finger...oooh...).<br>"I don't do one night stands, Molly. I never have done." He pauses, looking as though he's searching for words. "I...do _like_ you, Molly. And I don't want this to just be a...fleeting thing. At the same time..."  
>"You don't want to be my boyfriend." I finish for him. I should've known. He shakes his head.<br>"No, it's not that. I just don't think I'd be a very good..._boyfriend_." I look away. "Molly, I want to be with you. Don't ask me why, because I'm not entirely sure myself, but I know that you're not someone who I want to let go. Especially not after last night." I smile in spite of myself. "So how about we say this. We're..._together_. And no more labels. Labels give benchmarks, and standards to live up to, and expectations that I know I could never meet. But let's say _together_. And we'll take each day as it comes." I look back at him, my eyes shining involuntarily. I nod, giving into temptation and kissing him, pressing myself against his bare chest (oooh, his bare chest is rather lovely). His arms snake round my waist, and the toast is completely forgotten.

**-One hour later-**

I roll onto my back, breathing heavily. He's lying next to me, naturally seeming infinitely more composed than I am. I push my hair off my face, trying to control my heartbeat.  
>"That was...pretty..." I begin.<br>"Amazing? Unbelievable? Fantastic? Enjoyable?" He offers.  
>"All of the above." I laugh, and look at him. I swear he has never been more beautiful. A thought occurs to me, and I prop myself up on my side. "Sherlock?"<br>"Mmmm?" He answers, absentmindedly tracing patterns on my back (which is pretty distracting...)  
>"You've always said you were asexual etcetera...so where the hell did you learn that?" I exclaim. He grins at me wickedly.<br>"I read fanfiction." My mouth drops open in shock as he stands up, stretching and allowing me full view of..._him_. "So. How about that coffee?"

**A/N2: Okay, I couldn't resist. This is romance/HUMOUR after all. Hope you enjoyed, will NOT be posting anymore (sorry Jen!), and please review (that means you too, Jen!)  
>-SM (no, I'm not referring to kinky sex, those are my initials...) xx<strong>


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